


fly away you dainty dish

by batyatoon



Series: three lonely blackbirds [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Banter, Collection: Purimgifts Day 2, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, POV Second Person, Strip Wicked Grace (Dragon Age), Wicked Grace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: On a hot summer night in Kirkwall, Hawke and Isabela spend some quality time together.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Series: three lonely blackbirds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651258
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Purimgifts 2020





	fly away you dainty dish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> This work is set sometime during Act II of the game.
> 
> The title is from the song "[Blackbirds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDA9oOI2oO4)" by Erin McKeown.

Isabela stretches her bare arms overhead and smiles like one of her knives, bright and sharp and promising trouble. "Are you in, then? Or ... out?"

"In." You draw another card from the stack at the center of the table, and study your hand. It's not a terrible hand, but not a great one either; this is entirely too likely to end with losing your shirt. Literally, if temporarily; you’ve already lost your gauntlets, belt, and boots, all of them now sitting in a neat stack on the spare chair on Isabela’s side of the table.

Not that the prospect of losing your shirt is all that unpleasant, all things considered. For one thing, it’s been an oppressively hot summer in Kirkwall this year, and tonight is no exception; the air’s muggy and thick, making clothes in general seem like a bad idea. For another … well, there’s Isabela, sitting across from you and smirking, and that can always go in so many different interesting directions.

Meanwhile,  _ she’s _ down by precisely one garment: the blue scarf that usually circles her hips, currently draped over the corner of her bed at the other end of the room, behind you. She’s toying with the edge of the matching scarf over her hair; that’s likely to be the next thing to go, if you win this hand.

"What's even the point of being a mage, I ask you," wonders Isabela aloud, "if you can't use your magic to cheat at cards?"

"Well, it's nice in a fight," you point out, and reach for the bottle of wine you’ve been sharing through the game. “And it has … maybe a couple of other uses.”

“Oh?” She fans her cards in front of her face, and smiles at you wickedly over the top of them. “Do tell, Hawke.”

You concentrate, and smirk back at her as ice crystals form up on the outside of the bottle, frosting the glass. “Chilled wine on a hot night, how does that sound?”

Her eyes light up. “Ohh,” she says, drawing out the syllable and lowering her cards to hold out a hand for the bottle, “that sounds  _ very _ useful.”

“I thought so.” You take a swallow, relishing the cold, and pass the bottle to her.

Isabela takes only a small sip, and then tilts her head to one side and presses the chilled glass against her cheek, slides it down the side of her neck. “Mm,” she murmurs dreamily, “oh, that  _ is _ nice.”

Your mouth’s just a little dry, suddenly, despite the drink only a moment ago. Somehow you don’t really mind. “It’s your turn,” you point out.

“... So it is,” Isabela agrees with a little shake of her head, and puts down the bottle. “See, now you’ve gone and distracted me with your wily wizard ways.”

“I could  _ keep _ distracting you,” you suggest, either an offer or a playful threat. “Unless you’d rather finish the game?”

“What, wouldn’t you?” She eyes you over her cards again, eyebrows raised in a wholly unconvincing parody of innocence.

“Oh, I don’t know.” You reach for the bottle, run your hand down its side and spread a little more ice along it, deliberately slide frost-dampened fingers under the edge of the neckline of your contested shirt. “I could go either way.”

Isabela laughs. “So I hear. Do you fold, then?”

“Not a chance.” You lean back and grin at her, tucking the chilled wine bottle under one arm. “But I’ll happily take your forfeit if  _ you _ fold.”

Her mouth drops open in momentary outrage -- and then she’s laughing, dropping her cards to scatter on the floor, and coming straight at you across the table.

The management here at the Hanged Man never takes noise complaints all that seriously, but still, you’re inclined to hope later that the room next door is empty.

* * *


End file.
